Chasing Home

By Marianne Holmes

Dustin Upshaw is living an aimless, uninspiring existence. His frequent brushes with the law finally lead him to an impossible choice and the result is that he becomes guardian to a dementia patient living in a nursing home. Realizing that it's time for him to try to get his life in order, Dustin gets a job and takes seriously his guardianship o

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marianne Holmes Publishing
• Release date: Jan 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954168381

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Chasing Home

Copyright © 2020 by Marianne Holmes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

978-1-954168-40-4 (Hardcover)

978-1-954168-39-8 (Paperback)

978-1-954168-38-1 (eBook)

One

Dustin Upshaw, Dustup to his friends, turned left onto Route 95 heading south at 3:00 a.m. on a July morning. Highway lights cast artificial daylight, the kind of light that confuses the pit of your stomach, making you wonder if you have any right to be tired. Warm air flowed through the open windows and wrapped itself around him like an extra, and unnecessary, layer of clothing. But he liked the heat and kept the windows open.

Lowering the radio volume, Dustin tried to drink in the sights and sounds along the ride, experience them with fresh eyes. But there was nothing fresh here for him; wherever he looked, all he could see was his past, foggy with disappointment and lack of motivation. He couldn’t see through all of that to a future. Not here, anyway.

He glanced in the rearview mirror at the back seat of the car and thought, again, that it contained pretty much his entire life. He also thought he should feel sadder than he did about that. Everything he owned was back there in a tidy little pile. It represented his past, sure, and it was his present. He hoped that it wasn’t his future, but he couldn’t be at all sure about that.

He’d tried to sleep last night but after hours of failing he’d dressed and gotten into the car several hours earlier than he’d planned. But it wasn’t like he had a schedule and it didn’t matter when he left. The important thing was that he was going.

Road trip, here we come. He glanced at the passenger seat. Bet you’re as glad to be on the way as I am, Claude. We’re a pathetic couple of guys, that’s all I can say. And he shrugged.

Claude, of course, didn’t answer. He never answered anymore, not since he’d died. Now his remains sat quietly in a black and gold etched urn. He would go wherever Dustin chose to take him, and Dustin had decided that they both could use a change of scenery in a big way. He’d packed them both up with the promise that they’d do some exploring, see some of the country, find a nice place to settle down, at least for a while.

Dustin and Claude had met two years earlier, when things were different for both of them. Dustin couldn’t seem to keep himself out of trouble back then, and Claude was, of course, alive. Those two facts brought them together.

Two

Two years before he hit the road with Claude, Dustin found himself being arrested on a distressingly regular basis. Distressing for his mother, at least. Dustin didn’t much seem to care, apart from the inconvenience. It wasn’t like they were going to lock him up for more than the night. Sometimes, the arrests involved some sort of fight and usually no one involved carried a grudge. Dustin didn’t always come out of those fights looking or feeling like the victor, but that didn’t stop any of it.

Sometimes his offenses happened in the public nuisance arena. Drunkenness doesn’t bring out the best in most people and Dustin was no exception; at the very least, he could be exceedingly annoying. His neighbors didn’t enjoy his singing voice, even during daylight hours. But the slurred version in the middle of the night was unacceptable. So, they’d call the police. And Dustin would spend a night in a cell, sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s consumption. And far enough from his neighbors to allow them to sleep, too.

Worse, by far, were the occasions when he became really angry while drunk. His best, and sober, self was not mean or dangerous. But drunk and angry Dustin could be both. He couldn’t really claim that he hadn’t known what he was doing during these times. On a very sober level, deep inside his brain, he knew that he was using his anger, and his target, to relieve some pressure that built up inside him. He was aware that sometimes he courted the trouble, looked for someone to trigger the reaction he was looking for. Sober Dustin reasoned that these guys were like him, just looking for a fight, and that they’d both gotten what they wanted. Maybe he was right, but it hardly mattered. When his anger reached that point it wasn’t a kindred spirit he sought; he needed a focus for his aggression.

At times, Dustin wondered about finding a healthier outlet for the pressure. While there certainly must be one, he had to admit to himself that he liked the feelings the fights provoked. The power, the pain, the resistance to his repeated blows. This is how it was the night he and Marcus crossed paths.

They had been at Lucky’s for nearly three hours, Dustin and his usual group of friends. They were all pretty mellow, although Dustin had been feeling anger nibbling at the edges of his consciousness for days. But these were his friends; he wouldn’t lose control over something stupid with one of them.

Two men and a woman sat in a booth by one of the few windows in the place and, as time went on, they grew increasingly loud and boisterous. As their noise intruded on groups in the rest of the room, Dustin frowned in their direction. No one in the booth noticed, but one of the men rose and walked toward the restrooms. They were a little quieter in his absence and Dustin returned to his own conversation with Raul.

Raul shook his head adamantly. No, he said while continuing to shake it, eyes closed. It was not the defensive back- The sentence went unfinished as his chair moved abruptly and his breath was expelled in a whoosh. The man from the booth had shoved it, hard, as he passed them.

He had greasy long hair and bad skin. His eyes narrowed as Dustin stood, preventing him from walking away from the table. I think, Dustin said, staring into the man’s face, you owe my friend here an apology. See, you just bumped his chair and interrupted the conversation we were having. And I don’t believe that it was an accident.

The man smiled a mirthless smile and muttered something under his breath. Dustin didn’t hear what he said but decided that he didn’t like the man’s attitude and took a step, continuing to block his passage. If you don’t want your ass kicked, the man said, looking at the floor but clearly addressing Dustin, you’d best step aside. Now

Ready for what he knew was coming, Dustin stood motionless. Without looking up, the man took a swing at Dustin’s head. Dustin’s forearm rose quickly and blocked the shot and his other fist, the right, went straight up and connected with the man’s chin.

The man yelped in pain, and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. A crowd quickly gathered around them, moving chairs and clearing space on the floor, shouting encouragement to one or the other. The man’s friends stood at the front and the woman slurred, Get ‘em, Marcus. Take his head off!

The taller of the two, Marcus looped his arm around Dustin’s neck and tried to grapple him to the floor. But Dustin jabbed at his ribs with both fists and Marcus was forced to let go to shield his body. Marcus took another huge swing toward Dustin’s head, but Dustin ducked under it and rammed his head into Marcus’s stomach. They both crashed to the floor, Marcus on his back and Dustin on his knees, pinning the man’s arms to the floor. Three rapid blows landed to Marcus’s head before Raul and Steve grabbed Dustin and lifted him off. Breathing heavily, his knuckles bloodied, Dustin’s anger was already dissipating. He would have left and gone home if the police hadn’t arrived before he had the chance.

Three

The next morning, Dustin found himself in a courtroom, waiting for yet another opinion of what was wrong with his life. Bored and hungover, he slumped against the back of the hard, wooden bench in the last row against the wall and tried to fall asleep. He almost made it before someone stepped on his foot and muttered what might have been an apology but might also have been a complaint. In any case, he was awake when he heard the bailiff call his name. Stumbling toward the front of the room, he finally looked around.

Well, I hope we aren’t interrupting naptime, Mr. Upshaw, a deep voice crooned. Dustin looked at the judge and blanched; this man looked serious. It wasn’t just the black robes; the scowl on his face said he was unamused by Dustin.

Dustin cleared his throat. Sorry, he muttered as he stared at the judge and waited for whatever was coming.

Do you know why you’re here, son? the judge asked.

I, uh, I guess it’s about last night. After a moment, he hastened to add, It really wasn’t my fault, though.

First of all, in this courtroom, you’ll address me as ‘Your Honor.’ Is that clear?

Yes. A heartbeat later, Yes, Your Honor.

"Good. Secondly, I’m not interested in whose fault ‘it’ was. Is that clear?"

Yes, Your Honor. Dustin’s misery grew but he was a quick learner.

You are here this morning because you have proven yourself to be what we call a habitual offender. This wasn’t your first fight and you’ve created a number of other disturbances. You appear to be someone who cannot stay out of trouble.

Dustin mulled that over briefly and thought it couldn’t be right, wasn’t really fair. He usually didn’t even end up in a courtroom as a result of his escapades. And occasional didn’t mean habitual. But, whatever.

There’s really not much to talk about, the judge continued while looking down at the documents before him. Thirty days. Give you some time to think about your life. Bang went the gavel and the bailiff called the next case.

Momentarily stunned, Dustin didn’t immediately react. No! he began when he realized that he’d been sentenced to spend time in jail. But no one was listening, and someone had his arm and led him toward a door at the side of the room. Fully awake now, Dustin’s heart hammered in his chest. No! he tried again, this time addressing it to the officer leading him, staring at the side of the man’s face and willing him to understand that this must be a mistake. But it made no difference; the man didn’t even turn toward him.

Through the doorway was a wide corridor where the air was cool, and carpet hushed the footsteps. Hurrying toward them was a familiar figure. Judge Chester Morgan was one of his father’s oldest friends and was known in Dustin’s household as Uncle Chet. Uncle Chet! Dustin cried with relief. I need your help! They’re trying to send me to jail. It’s not—I mean, I’m not—I don’t even know what to say. But this has to be a mistake. Can you help me? What do I do?

I tried to get here earlier but was tied up, Judge Morgan said with a nod to both men but ignoring Dustin’s questions. My clerk should have been here to take him, he continued as another man, younger, hurried down the corridor, apologizing to the judge as he walked. Before you process him, he said to the officer who still held Dustin’s arm, would you bring him to Room D with my clerk? I’ll be back as soon as I can. Thank you. And he walked away, leaving Dustin baffled.

Before you process him? Dustin thought. That sounds like he’s going to leave me here!

The hand on his arm led him to a door with frosted glass and gold stencils identifying it as Room D. Opening the door, he ushered both men inside, saying, I’ll be right out here in the hallway. Dustin found that simple sentence threatening, adding to his heightened anxiety, but was relieved when the door closed, and he was alone with the young man who apparently worked with the judge.

The young man, the clerk, wore a bright red tie and a poorly fitting suit. He looked irritated. He can’t be more upset about this than I am, Dustin thought. And he had the advantage of being the only one in the room who knew what was going on. At least Dustin hoped he did.

Dustin waited, standing. The clerk began to explain in one long, run-on sentence, As an alternative sentence to the one issued by Judge Berger in the courtroom, Judge Morgan has arranged another option for you, a project, if you will, whereby you will be appointed guardian of a man now living in a nursing home and you will be responsible for taking care of him as far as medical, housing, and association decisions go, and you will report regularly to the court regarding his care and condition, as well as meeting with staff at the nursing home and visiting with the man, at least as guardian but also, if you wish, as companion, until such time as Judge Morgan decides otherwise, unless, of course, he dies—not the judge but the man in the nursing home. As he finished, he waved toward a table surrounded by several mismatched chairs. He quickly grabbed what looked like the most comfortable one and sat, staring at Dustin.

For several seconds, Dustin stared back at him. Finally, he shook himself out of the stare and asked, First of all, what’s your name?

Aaron.

Well, Aaron, there’s been some kind of mistake. I don’t know why you or the judge think that I’m capable of anything but I’m not. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I can’t take care of myself, as I’ve just been told in the courtroom, so there’s no way I can take care of anyone else. This is just wrong. It’s a mistake.

No mistake. Judge Morgan sees these cases come through and he grabbed this one just for you, Aaron smirked and put his hands behind his neck.

I still don’t know what you’re talking about and I can’t be made to do something I don’t even understand. This is ridiculous. Dustin looked up at the ceiling, his head buzzing, ears hot.

The judge doesn’t think so. He’s serious about this, Dustin.

Dustin jumped up and threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "Serious about what? I still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!"

Okay, Aaron said, this time without the smirk. Just sit down and I’ll explain. When nothing happened, he asked, Will you just sit down?

Dustin sat and waited. This is worse than the hangover, he thought.

There is a program, Aaron began, that appoints volunteers as legal guardians for people who need a guardian but have no family or friends able or willing to help. These are usually older people, mostly indigent, most with dementia. They need someone to make decisions about medical questions, like whether to have a joint replacement, I guess. And someone needs to decide where they live. Most are in nursing homes, though. And someone needs to decide who can see them. Like, maybe some unscrupulous third cousin isn’t allowed to see them. That’s about it.

Wow! Dustin exclaimed. "He really thinks I can’t take care of myself."

What? Now Aaron looked confused. "No. No! You’ve got